Emily stood in the kitchen, frying sausages, when the front door slammed—her daughters were back from visiting their grandmother. The girls hung up their coats and declared in near unison:
“We’re never going to Grandma’s again! She doesn’t love us.”
Emily froze. She stepped into the hallway, eyes flickering between Sophie and Lily.
“Why would you say that?”
“She gave all the good treats to Oliver and Charlotte. We got nothing. They were allowed to run and shout, but we had to sit quietly. When they left, she stuffed their pockets with sweets, kissed them, even walked them to the bus stop. But us? She just shoved us out the door…”
Emily listened, a lump forming in her throat. Her mother-in-law, Margaret, had made it clear for years who she considered her *real* grandchildren. Oliver and Charlotte were the children of Helen, her daughter. Sophie and Lily—Emily’s twins—were just the “other ones.”
When Emily first married George, things with Margaret had been tolerable. Not close, but civil. Everything changed when Helen had children. Margaret bloomed—her grandchildren became her purpose. But only *those* grandchildren, the ones “by blood.”
When George and Emily had the twins, Margaret’s reaction was icy.
“Two at once? Bit much, isn’t it? I couldn’t handle both.”
George had said they weren’t asking for help. But after that, a wall went up. Emily’s own mother became their lifeline—always there, never complaining. Meanwhile, Margaret doted only on Helen’s children.
Years passed, and nothing changed. George’s children got birthday gifts, if that. Helen’s children got everything. Margaret even told friends openly:
“Proper grandchildren come from your daughter. The others? Well. They’re just *his*, that’s all.”
When those words reached Emily and George, he finally argued with his mother properly. But it didn’t last. The favouritism continued. And the children noticed.
That day, the girls explained how Margaret had sent them away because she “had a headache.” Made them walk alone across the wasteland to the far bus stop. They were six.
“You walked alone?!” George demanded, horrified.
“Yeah,” Lily said. “We were scared. There were dogs…”
George called his mother at once.
“Mum, you sent them across the wasteland? By themselves?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” she said coolly. “They should learn independence.”
“They’re six! Would you have let Helen’s kids do that?”
“Oh, so now I’m the villain? That wife of yours has twisted your mind.”
The call ended. George stared at Emily, lost. She pressed her lips together.
“That’s it,” Emily said. “They won’t go back. They have a grandmother who loves them—my mum. This one can keep her *favourites*.”
Years later, the twins grew. Only when Margaret fell ill and couldn’t manage alone did she suddenly remember Sophie and Lily.
She called Oliver first. He refused—”I’m not a maid.” Charlotte said no—”too busy with schoolwork.” Then Margaret rang George.
“Send yours over to help.”
“You’ve ignored them for five years. Now you remember? Ask the ones you *love*,” he said, and hung up.
Next, she called Emily.
“You have to come, I’m ill!”
“I owe you nothing. You have a daughter—ask her. We’re away. The girls are with the grandmother who *doesn’t* pick favourites.”
Margaret clutched the phone. Was this really the end? Would no one come?
But how was it her fault?
She always knew who was family—and who wasn’t.